


sunday morning coming down

by sharkfish



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Demisexual Castiel, M/M, Marijuana, Mutual Pining, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-01
Updated: 2017-03-01
Packaged: 2018-09-27 18:07:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10037648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sharkfish/pseuds/sharkfish
Summary: Smoke can do all kinds of stuff to you, maybe. Maybe make you want to touch, want to kiss. Maybe make you want to cook dinner and lay together reading and laugh together on long drives through the Hill Country, Baby’s wheels tried and true around the curves and bends.





	

Every Sunday morning: Dean in Cas’s room or Cas in Dean’s room, wake and bake, sometimes giggling or sometimes complaining about work or sometimes arguing about books. Sometimes just quiet, soothed by the other’s company. 

They are roommates. Busy ones, ones that don’t even hang out that much. Dean takes care of Cas’s cat when Cas goes out of town for work. They’re probably not even friends, but that doesn’t mean Dean isn’t hopelessly in love with Cas. 

Today they are in Dean’s room, which means Dean is mostly naked in just a pair of boxers and Cas is mostly clothed in an old t-shirt and flannel pants. Dean is sitting against the wall at the head of the bed and Cas is on his stomach with his head at Dean’s hip, so he has to crane upwards to meet Dean’s eyes. That’s ok. Dean likes looking at the long line of Castiel’s back, the dip along his spine, the arch of his feet, swinging in the air. 

Cas grinds and packs a bowl, his black-with-navy pipe instead of Dean’s green one. They don’t say anything while he completes this ritual, his fingers steady and sure. Dean has one hand on his stomach and the other is on the bed, just a breath away from touching Cas’s arm. It would be easy to accidentally brush his knuckles along the soft hairs just below Cas’s elbow. 

“Hey, here you go,” Cas says, poking Dean with the pipe. 

Dean hits it, too hard because he’s distracted by Cas’s fingers touching his when they passed the pipe, and he comes away coughing. Cas laughs at him, hits, and they pass back and forth in silence. Dean starts staring at Cas’s shoulders, at the almost-delicate curls at the base of his neck, the actually-delicate twin swoops of shoulder blades. Dean wants to touch him everywhere, kiss him everywhere. Dean has never fantasized about being tender with someone, but here he is. Wanting Cas like that, wake and bakes every morning, nuzzling against each other, grinning and whispering. 

Dean is really high. That must explain it -- the way he feels when he’s around Cas -- like falling endlessly towards the ground, like being caught in an updraft, like finding his wings. It must be the weed. Dean only smokes during his Sunday mornings with Cas for the most part, so he’s a lightweight. Smoke can do all kinds of stuff to you, maybe. Maybe make you want to touch, want to kiss. Maybe make you want to cook dinner and lay together reading and laugh together on long drives through the Hill Country, Baby’s wheels tried and true around the curves and bends. 

“You’re thinking a little deep for a Sunday morning,” Cas says, and he’s smiling, and his voice is rougher from all that inhaling and Dean feels it in his groin. The smile and the voice. Fuck, he is fucked. 

“Yeah, just…” Dean shrugs, and then because it’s a Sunday morning and Sunday mornings are sacred and safe, he says, “Feeling lonely, I guess.”

“Mm,” Cas says, turning his head like a bird to look at Dean. “All you do is work.” 

“All you do is work, too. And I don’t want to -- I don’t want to _date_.” 

“I know,” Cas says. “When would we even have time for that?” 

That’s not what Dean meant, exactly. He meant _I don’t want to date anyone that isn’t you_ but that’s a little too much honesty, even for Sunday morning. Cas packs another bowl and says, voice careful-casual, “I bet Sam knows some hottie lawyer chicks. You could have a sugar mama.” 

Dean coughs out a laugh. “Just what I need, to be a kept man.” And then: “But to be honest, I think I’d kind of rather have a hottie lawyer dude. I mean, I’m into either, but…” 

They have never had this conversation. Dean assumes everyone knows or can tell he’s a big queer immediately, even if he doesn’t fit the unfortunate stereotype of a gay(ish) man, and Cas has always just seemed above mortal activities like dating. Now, though, he has a strange look on his face, eyebrows pulled together as he studies Dean. “You’re gay?” Cas says, finally. 

“Maybe about seventy percent. Charlie says I’m at least eighty, but…” 

He knows he keeps trailing off like an idiot, but that’s probably excusable partway through their second bowl of the morning. It’s getting close to time for them to part ways and go back to bed for a few more hours, cuddled warm in their separate beds. 

“I didn’t know,” Cas says, blinking in rapid succession. 

“Is that, like, a problem?” 

Castiel pulls himself up, somehow going from on his stomach to cross-legged in front of Dean, that same considering frown on his face. “No, of course not.”

“Really?” Dean says. He feels light, he feels like he knows why they call it “high.” He’s flying again. 

Cas laughs. “It’s about time to put you to bed.” 

“Yeah, I’m definitely pretty fucked up.” 

Cas gets up and, a little dramatically, pulls back Dean’s comforter for Dean to climb under. Just shirtless, he feels very naked, Cas’s eyes on him. Cas kind of tucks him in and then closes the door behind when he leaves. 

 

Wednesday, Dean makes it home by six -- a miracle -- and is still conscious when Cas comes in around ten. Dean is reading in his room, door open despite the threat of Cas’s cat deciding to join him in bed. 

“Hello, Dean!” Cas calls as he opens the door to his room, dumps his bag on his bed, jangles around to change clothes. 

“Hey,” Dean says back. 

Cas appears in his doorway, a whirlwind of shirtless in pale ripped jeans and black-and-white tattoos covering both arms, his hair a mess. “Do you want to smoke with me?” 

“Yeah, sure,” Dean says. Why the hell not invite a shirtless Cas to come sit in his bed with him and get him ridiculously high and unable to stop himself from touching. 

What if he can’t stop himself from touching? 

Cas disappears and comes back with his kit and goes through the lovely, precise ritual of rolling a joint while Dean watches. Cas is thin and sleek, the curve of his hip the most beautiful thing Dean’s ever seen, the muscles of his stomach just waiting to be licked. Dean is stone-cold sober and still can’t control his wanting.

Cas lights the joint, then they pass back and forth with only an off-hand comment on the berry taste of this strain, blue- and raspberries hitting you right at the end of the exhale. 

“How’s it going with your boss?” Cas asks. 

“Better,” Dean says. “I mean, she’s still pretty much the Wicked Witch of the West, but I’ve learned how to deal with her.” 

Cas smiles. Dean smiles back. He’s starting to feel a little hazy, a little bit like singing along to a Zeppelin song he can hear in his head. He’s blinking and unable to control his staring, he and Cas’s eyes just locked together. 

“You still lonely?” Cas says. 

“Yeah,” Dean says, hands itching to do something other than puff-and-pass. 

“Me too,” Cas says, finally looking away. 

“We should hang out more,” Dean says.

The joint is getting shorter so their fingers brush on the pass. Cas smokes and then says, “Yeah, we should.” 

But still, after the joint, Cas excuses himself and doesn’t come out of his room the rest of the night. 

 

Sunday again. Dean wakes first, pulls on some clothes, and eases out across the hallway and into Cas’s open bedroom, where he stops: Cas is sleeping on his side, back to Dean, and his t-shirt has rucked up so Dean can see the golden skin just above where Cas’s pants should start, but he’s not wearing any pants and his ass is only half-covered by a sheet. Dean’s breath catches and he stares for far longer than he should before backing out of the room, glad for silent socked feet on the hardwood. 

The first thing he wants to do is touch himself, thinking about the soft curve of Cas’s ass, but Cas will probably wake up soon and come to find him with his weed kit and Dean does not want to be caught with his hand on his dick. So he wills his half-hard-on to go away. 

It’s another hour before Cas stumbles into Dean’s room, looking exhausted. He worked late the night before; he’s been working weekends more and more. Dean thinks he got a promotion at work but they haven’t talked about it. 

“Good morning,” Cas says, his voice rougher than usual. Dean shivers. “Forgot my kit. Do you have any?” 

“Yeah, of course,” Dean says, and reaches into a drawer to pull out his grinder and pipe while Cas climbs into bed next to him. Cas seems to sit closer than usual, their arms brushing a little bit. Dean relishes in even the small touch, will think about it too much later. 

Dean grabs the book off his bedside table and uses it to grind and pack, brushing the crumbs off the book and back into the grinder at the end. He hands Cas the pipe to have green, and of course Cas quarters it so Dean can share. 

“This is good,” Cas says, closing his eyes and holding the pipe out for Dean again. 

“We have the same dealer,” Dean says, laughing a little. 

“But I usually get Blue Dream and you get… what?” 

“Whatever Ash says is good.” 

“Do you think Ash is his real name? I think all drug dealers should have secret nicknames.” 

“I used to buy from a girl that called herself Ninja,” Dean says. 

Cas meets his eyes and giggles a little. Cas’s eyes are navy in the dim light. Dean wonders if Cas can see the wanting in Dean’s eyes. 

“Dean,” Cas says suddenly, apropos of nothing. “Do you know what demisexual is?” 

Dean pulls his head back and frowns. “No. Should I?” 

“You said you were bi.” 

“I am, but I’m not like -- I don’t get the LGBTQ-whatever newsletter.” 

Cas smiles. “I call it ‘alphabet soup.’” 

“That’s a good one,” Dean says. “I’ll use it.” 

The first bowl is done. Dean packs another, his eyelids feeling heavy. 

“Demisexual is like -- do you know what asexual means? It’s kind of on the ace spectrum, maybe halfway between ‘asexual’ and ‘sexual.’” 

“Uh,” Dean says, intelligently. 

“I’m demi,” Cas says. “So I don’t really -- I have to have a deeper connection with someone before I’m attracted to them.” He pauses, thinking. “But I’ve only ever been into men.” 

“Ok,” Dean says slowly. He’s not sure why Cas is telling him this.

They both go silent for awhile, just smoking, lost in their own thoughts. Dean is pretty sure now that Cas will never want him. Dean mostly relies on his pretty face to get laid, and he has no idea how to _connect_ with someone. 

“Sorry, Cas,” Dean says. 

Cas arches an eyebrow at him. “What are you apologizing for?” 

“Not understanding. I mean, I kind of understand now. But I guess I should know this stuff already.” 

“It’s ok,” Cas says. “A lot of people don’t.” 

“Is that why you don’t date?” 

“I date sometimes, but most people don’t understand. They just want to fuck immediately and I’m not into that.” 

Dean nods. “Deeper connection.” 

“Yeah.” 

“So you don’t like… just look at someone and want them?” 

“Not really.” 

Teasing: “You don’t think I’m pretty?” 

Cas goes quiet, looking down at the pipe instead. Dean is sure he’s offended him now, so he opens his mouth to apologize, but Cas says, “I think you’re very pretty.” 

Dean stares at him. Cas glances up and then away, blushing. “Are you,” Dean asks,” attracted to me?” 

Cas blushes deeper and this is as good an answer as any. It thrills it’s way down Dean’s spine. “Listen,” Cas says, “you’re one of the only friends I have and I didn’t mean to fuck it up --” 

“You haven’t fucked anything up.” 

They stare at each other for a long time. Cas licks his lips. “I just wanted,” he says, “you to know. That I don’t want to fuck you.” 

Dean tries not to look devastated. 

“But I’d really like to spend more time with you. Go on a date.” 

“A date?” Dean says, faintly. 

“Fuck,” Cas says. “I’m so stupid. I’m sorry. I’m being ridiculous.” 

Dean reaches out and touches Cas’s chin so Cas will look at him. It’s the first time he’s touched Cas with intention, and his fingertips tingle. “You’re the opposite of stupid and I think you know that.” 

“I’m behaving stupidly,” Cas amends. 

Dean swallows, licks his lips. “Where do you want to go? For a date?” 

Cas’s eyes widen like he didn’t expect this at all, like his confession was a shot in the dark. “I hadn’t thought that far ahead,” he says. 

“There are a lot of good movies out,” Dean says. “We could go to the Drafthouse or something.” 

Cas nods. He still looks unbelieving. 

“Do you -- um, do you like to be touched at all? Like, a kiss? Or even just holding hands? I don’t know about this, I’m sorry.” 

Dean notices that Cas’s hands are shaking a little bit, wrapped around Dean’s pipe, and they’ve forgotten to pass back and forth. 

“I think I would like that,” Cas says. “Both. With you.” 

“Ok,” Dean says. 

“Ok,” Cas says back. 

They are both quiet, looking at each other but not knowing what to say. 

“Uh,” Dean says, “when is good for you? I can work around whatever time.” 

“We could go tonight…” 

Dean grins. “Yes, we could.” 

“I’ll look up movie times once I wake up,” Cas says. Finally, he hands the pipe to Dean. Their fingers brush a moment too long. 

“Ok,” Dean says. He might be more in shock than Cas. 

The bowl is cashed. “I’m going back to bed,” Cas says. 

Dean nods. He turns the pipe upside down and knocks it against his ash tray. It has a picture of Jesus on the bottom and says “Jesus Hates It When You Smoke.” Cas gave it to him. 

Cas gets up. At the last moment, he leans over and kisses Dean’s cheek.

**Author's Note:**

> I totally encourage recreational marijuana use.


End file.
